


interview with the falcon (and friend)

by hupsoonheng



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11018274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: in the not so distant future, rhodey becomes the new leader of the avengers, and sam becomes captain america. someone at the offices of gq is smart enough to interview them.





	interview with the falcon (and friend)

**Author's Note:**

> this was literally one of the best prompts i could have gotten, and i'm so happy i did. the end result is short, but i hope it's just as much fun to read as it was to write. (and of course i couldn't help myself making it samsteve.) the amazing, beautiful art for this piece is by @silentwalrus!
> 
> that said, writing and the small interactions i had with my artist partners was the only fun part of this rbb. i'm not afraid to say that the slack chat where most communication and socialization happened became a place i was no longer comfortable being due to racism, and i left it not long after signups ended. i will not participate next year, and the experience has turned me off from all future big bangs except for the sam bb coming up, and only then because it's being run by people i am close to. 
> 
> it's not that i had to disclose this information; it's that i wanted to.

 

It's hard to look anywhere but Rhodey's eyes when he adjusts your tie, dark, focused, brows furrowed above them as he tugs at the silk at your throat. You don't remember his wrinkles being so deep. Has it been so long? 

"You getting sneakers is some ageist shit," Rhodey says as he gives one last tug. He straightens with a grin, and pulls at his lapels until his jacket is sitting where it's supposed to. 

"Word? You get a patterned shirt, so let's agree to disagree on that one." You laugh as you finger a point of his shirt collar, and he snorts as he pushes your hand away with a gentle wave. 

"Colonel? Mr. Wilson?" An intern from the art department pops up behind Rhodey. "About ready to start?" 

"Yes ma'am, we certainly are," Rhodey says, giving her a smile that she can't help but echo. As soon as she turns around you mimic Rhodey with a goofy voice and he shoots you a Look, all rights reserved, over his shoulder. 

"Don't be mad because she just called you Mr. Wilson," he says as you follow the intern to the cyclo wall. Rhodey said the seamless background was classy; you wanted something more colorful, something outside, but as your senior in both life and military rank, as well as the new leader of the Avengers, Rhodey got final say. You remember that stupid _You could say I over-Rhode you_ joke he cracked when the decision was made. 

"I'm not the one who got the grays dyed out!" you volley back, laughing. The intern glances your way with a smirk. 

"I didn't tell them to do that," Rhodey mutters, but there's not much conviction there and you can already picture his _Well alright then!_ face when he must have been offered the option. 

Another intern darts toward the pair of you as you reach the cyclo and turn to face the photographer, who's finishing up a chat with someone else. This intern is here to dot the Is and cross the Ts of your looks, fussing with your clothes in ways you didn't know needed fussing. 

You're introduced to the photographer properly, an eager young man who introduces himself as Rahim, and to art director, a woman somewhere over 50 with choppy thick hair named Grace. She pays more attention to Rhodey than to you, but you don't have much time to dwell on that when Rahim looks like he might pop with joy from meeting you. 

"I saw your shoot with W magazine," Rahim says, though at least he's discreet enough not to yell it out. He bites his lower lip through his smile, like he's trying not to say too much. "I'm so excited to work with you!" 

"I'm keeping all my clothes on for this one, kid, don't get too excited. This is GQ," you mutter, rubbing your temple. You didn't strip for that shoot, exactly, but for someone usually seen in chunky body armor and wings, stripping down to an undershirt and boxer briefs is close enough to naked for most fans of the Avengers. You did get a dressing down from Tony at the time for that one, but it hasn't hurt your lofty career so far. 

Man, you're thinking in puns again. That's how you know you're nervous, more than you should be. 

The cover shoot takes less time than you think, but while Rahim's camera was clicking away, interns rolled out racks of clothes, colorful and expensive. There are dressing—well, not rooms, but compartments, you'll call them—but they're not too private when you have a stranger in there with you, assisting you into a new, predetermined outfit whether you like it or not. You do have to admit he buttons buttons way faster than you do, but you insist on tucking your shirt in yourself. 

"You think Steve and Tony liked doing this shit?" You push aside your so-called privacy curtain. 

"Tony? He had a love-hate relationship with it," Rhodey says, emerging in a pistachio green suit that plays off his dark skin about as beautifully as his last look did. 

"It was rhetorical," you say, as your particular assistant yanks at your pink tie. "Come on, man, be gentle! I'm an old man!" 

"Sorry," the intern says, without losing any of his intensity. "Grace just told us to move fast." 

"Find the place between moving slow and straight up murdering me, _please_." The intern looks mollified enough, but he still jogs when he goes to fetch your next pair of shoes. 

"They got you looking like one citrus dessert after another, man," Rhodey laughs. "First the Dreamsicle styles, now this pink lemonade look." 

"Lemonade's not a dessert, it's an award-winning visual album by the greatest visionary of our time," you retort as your assistant makes his return. Rhodey's helper isn't nearly so grabby as yours, who starts shoving your feet into the shoes like you're a toddler, almost knocking you off balance. 

"Don't let Tony hear you say that." 

"Man, let Tony hear! If he thinks he's got shit on Beyoncé I got a whole hive of people ready to beat his geriatric ass up." 

"I'm older than Tony, you know." 

"You gotta have something to say to everything I say? You can't just let me talk?" you say, glaring at him as you hop onto your other foot, trying to anticipate the intern's next move with the other shoe. 

"Nah, I'm the leader now. Gotta keep you in your place." 

"Keep dreaming, old man," you say, then turn back to the intern. "Please tell me that's it. I'm dressed now, right?" 

The intern gives you a thumbs up, and you feel bad for being so cranky with him. He's just trying to do his job. You don't even know if he's actually an intern or not, you just assume anyone young and doing grunt work at a publication must be underpaid or outright unpaid. 

You go through five outfits, all of them some flavor of bright or pastel, looking forward to a true spring in an age of climate change and uncertainty. By the time you finish off the last one it's been hours, and under the hot lights the only thing keeping you from sweating onto all these fancy threads are the young people in business casual who keep blotting at you. 

"I think we have what we need," Grace says, one hand on Rahim's shoulder while he sits at a massive monitor and side-scrolls through the images. "Thank you very much, gentlemen." 

"There's refreshments back this way, if you'll follow me," says the first young woman who guided you to the cyclo wall in the first place. 

"Yes, please," you say with a tired groan. 

"And you call me an old man," Rhodey says. "You got all tuckered out from that, Wilson?" 

"You didn't feel like you were gonna melt under those damn lights?" 

Rhodey snorts. "Philly strong, man." 

"Shut the fuck up! You just wanna make me look bad. You're an asshole, Rhodes, you know that?" 

"Got big asshole shoes to fill," Rhodey says as you reach the actual dressing rooms, and that makes you laugh. 

The refreshments are a whole lot of fruit and a whole lot of snack foods, which is fine by you. You drink coffee against your doctor's orders, and change back into your street clothes, which feel shabbier now, but whatever. Adidas been good to you this far, no reason to start wearing Gucci just because of a change of station. Your mother would probably have words to say about it, and given her slide toward dementia, you'd rather not hear those words five times in the same week. 

That's a little more sobering than you're in the mood for right now, actually. You teased Rhodey for dyeing out his grays but you've got Just For Men in your bathroom cabinet at home. It's less for you and more for Steve, who cares for reminders of your normal pace of aging even less than you do, but your recent promotion feels late whenever you spy a new silver curl. 

The magazine big wigs let you go home for the day; your interview is tomorrow, barring any alien invasions. A limo is waiting outside for Rhodey, of course. You part with a _See you tomorrow, man_ from both of you, and as the limo pulls away, your ride pulls into the considerable space left behind. 

"Couldn't pick me up in a car like a grown up, could you?" you ask, even as you grin wide. 

Steve pulls his motorcycle helmet off, which he wore only so he could make you wear it. "What can I say? Doris is reliable." 

"Reliably a death trap, you daredevil son of a bitch," you say, but you accept the helmet anyway, and drop into place behind Steve with your hands knotted together in front of his waist. 

You don't live as close to the GQ offices as Rhodey does, but you don't mind the extra time spent pressed to Steve's broad back. The wind whips at your clothes across the Brooklyn Bridge. The further down Court Street you go, the gentler and smaller everything seems to get, until Steve eases the bike down a narrow side street in Carroll Gardens, finding a wedge of a parking space a couple doors down from the brownstone you share with him. Something he bought with his considerable interest over the 70 years he'd been under the ice, even though you said you'd be fine renting any old apartment so long as it was with him. Steve said he never wanted you to worry. 

"I'm making linguine tonight," Steve says as he holds the front door open for you. 

"You gonna salt the water this time, baby?" you ask as you pass him, and Steve's sounds of indignation follow you all the way in. 

"I've been salting the water for months! Just like you told me!" 

"Relax and let me tease you, Steve, it's been a long day having strangers touch me all over," you say, flopping on the couch. 

"Oh yeah?" he says, a throaty growl as he stands at the end of the couch. "You sick of being touched all over, then?" 

"I dunno, I think I gotta check," you say, arching your brow. 

You spend too much time fooling around with Steve, but you've been spending so much time at Avengers Tower—where you're supposed to live, but Rhodey can drag you kicking and screaming—what with the roster changeups. Eventually Steve gets off you, with promises to finish up later, and he starts dinner while you make a run to the wine store. 

"Aha, there he is!" says the wine store owner from behind the counter as you enter. "Look, Aaron, our new celebrity!" 

"So I wasn't a celebrity before?" you reply, before laughing and holding your arm out for a dap. The wine store owner always pulls you in, too, shoulders colliding so you can feel the boom of his laughter in return. There's a wine store closer to your place, but Derrick just makes you feel more welcome in his store. 

"Sure you were," Derrick says, while Aaron works on stocking bottles of chardonnay. "But now you're a bigger celebrity, so you're our new celebrity. See how that works?" 

"Not really." You pretend to browse bottles, as if you're not going to get the exact same two bottles of bordeaux you always get, as if Derrick doesn't already know that. 

"It's a promotion. It's a new job." Derrick pulls your bottles and puts them on the counter near the register, but it's not a push. Another customer enters the store and Aaron engages them, leaving Derrick free to keep talking to you. 

"It's a hell of a responsibility," you add. "Hey Derrick, you think I should add one more bottle tonight?" 

"And an honor," Derrick counters. "What, to celebrate with?" You're thankful for Derrick's ability to have two conversations at once. Steve doesn't quite have the knack for it and just ends up getting lost, or asking which question you want him to answer. Rhodey tells you to pick a topic and stick with it, then blames it on your (relative) youth. And Bucky—well. You don't get a lot of opportunities to have even one conversation at a time with Bucky, these days. 

"Yeah. Steve is cooking." You run your finger down the green glass of the nearest wine bottle. Derrick and his staff dust constantly. 

"What, boiled cabbage?" 

"A little better than that," you say, and then you laugh together. Derrick picks out a Riesling he knows you'll like after you say you don't want another red, and sends you on your way with a _Later, man._

Steve's linguine is not bad at all, and after you dash some salt on his bolognese while Steve's pouring the wine, it's altogether pretty tasty. You tell him so, which gets you a big smile. The way he smiles reveals the fine lines appearing on his face, signs of age finally creeping in. With Erskine long dead, there's no telling what Steve's lifespan looks like. So far, so good—but you doubt the good doctor planned for his test subject to spend decades buried in ice. Steve is unprecedented. 

You should be able to sleep easily tonight, lulled into exhaustion by carbs and sex. Instead you lie on your back with one of Steve's arms draped over your waist, eyes wide and body heavy. You wonder if Rhodey feels as laden with purpose as you do—if he's awake too, right now, listening to Tony snore. 

Then again, things are different for Rhodey. He's older, yes, and has been through cutting edge surgery to repair his legs and spine with untested effects, but Tony is tapped out. Tony could no more be the leader of the Avengers anymore than he could pick up a car with his bare hands. The arc reactor wasn't perfect for most of its iterations, and between that and the physical trauma Tony's very normal human body has been through, multiple doctors have diagnosed Tony with an autoimmune disease with no known recovery. He's frail and shaky, and hasn't been seen by the public in months. 

But Steve? Steve is still strong, physically ready for any fight. He just doesn't want to anymore; he's been fighting all his life. He wants a try at routine, the kind of life he was looking for when you first met him. _It's not my turn anymore,_ he said at the meeting, right before nominating you as his successor. 

You made yourself a promise not to go looking for people's opinions of your new title, and so far, you've managed that much. But sometimes opinions—posts, comments, articles—land in your lap, and you're forced to contend with the reality that not everyone is ready for a Black Captain America. For some people, the idea of two Black men in the top spots of the Avengers isn't even something to be ready for, it's something to stop, and plenty of them brag about how they'd use lethal force to do it. 

Not that you're frightened of them. You're Falcon—no, you're Captain America. You carry a shield regifted to you from the nation of Wakanda, your combat skills are just below the former Winter Soldier's, and like hell are you giving up your wings. You're just tired of seeing angry white men in Ohio misspell all the ways they think you should die for thinking you get to bear an American symbol. 

You wake up late. It's not a surprise, after how long it took you to fall asleep, but it does mean you have to hurry it up as you hurl yourself in and out of the shower and yank on clothes you won't be embarrassed to be seen in. No pictures today, which also means nobody is going to dress you, so you better wake up and make sure your socks match. 

Steve goes with you because he heard Tony was going to be there, and he'd be damned if he'd be outdone in the moral support arena by Tony Stark. Steve's a super soldier all around, of course, which means that while you're pulling on what you hope are acceptable shoes, he's already dressed, looking neat and attractive in a tight T-shirt and slim-cut khakis. He showers before bed and puts mousse in his hair in the morning, so while you were struggling with your socks because your feet were still wet, he was moving at his usual pace. 

"You look great," he assures you as you take a hurried look at the mirror again, then tugs on your elbow. "Come on, you're gonna be late." 

You make it to GQ's offices again on the back of Steve's bike, and when you hurry inside you're met less with the irritation you expected and more of people just being glad you made it. That, and the interviewer is stuck on the train because of a sick passenger. When you check your phone, you realize you were only ten minutes late anyway. 

Tony is by the food table, and you think that's the real reason he's here, because when has Rhodey ever felt unsure. Not anytime you've ever seen, that's for sure. Tony looks like hell; he's lost more weight since the last time you saw him, and his skin is sallow. He's loaded up a paper plate with a cream cheese everything bagel, grapes, and as many cheese cubes as he could fit without them falling off, and you wonder how much of that will stay down. 

"I've gotten better catering than this," Tony says as his greeting as you approach the table yourself. You consider the muffins, but Tony might have the right idea with getting a bagel. You choose an egg bagel because you value having good breath right before an interview, and start unwrapping it. 

"You seem to be partaking an awful lot for someone who thinks this is subpar catering," you say, gesturing at his mountain of food with your bagel. 

"Subpar? I never said subpar. I just said I've gotten better." Tony takes a big dramatic bite out of the bagel, then puts his plate down when he realizes he's going to need two hands for this one. "You nervous?" he asks through his food. 

"Should I be?" You hope it's a good bluff, because of course you're nervous. 

"Of course not. Steve's a son of a bitch and I'll always stand by that, but you, Wilson? You're a good egg." Tony's hands are shaking enough that when he puts down the bagel and picks up a grape, it pops right out of his fingers and rolls under the table. 

"Thanks," you say, but Tony is more interested in trying to get his body low enough to be able to pick the grape up. Old Tony wouldn't have cared about the grape, but sick Tony has something to prove, you guess. If it were anybody else you'd help them, but you know better than to make Tony feel like he needs to be helped. 

Rhodey, on the other hand, has no such reservations. He slides over next to Tony like he was summoned, and rescues the grape almost instantly; you wouldn't even know he was older than Tony. Whatever medical miracle Tony cooked up for Rhodey gave him something of a second youth, making him an even better candidate to succeed Tony. 

"I wish you wouldn't," Tony says with his usual biting tone, but Rhodey pays him no mind. 

"Dare me to eat this floor grape?" Rhodey asks, rolling it back and forth in his cupped palm. 

"If you do that I'm telling the interviewer you're not fit to lead," you say, and Rhodey laughs before he free-throws the grape into a nearby trash can. 

Rhodey leads a grumbling Tony to a chair because exhaustion is already setting in, and even brings him his plate, although he calls Tony a numbnuts for grabbing this much food. Steve ambles over, picking up one of the muffins you rejected earlier. You catch Tony staring at Steve, but Steve doesn't notice, too busy expressing his disappointment that what he thought was a blueberry muffin has cranberries instead. You wonder, again, how much resentment is in that stare. 

"Someone told me the interviewer just hit the lobby," Steve says, eating the muffin anyway, because you've never seen him waste food. "You ready, Sam?" 

"More ready since you're here," you say, and that gets you just enough blushing from Steve, and a peck on the lips. 

The interviewer arrives with more bluster than you did, pink in the face from rushing around the building. She's slim, young, and white, with fine brown hair tied in a haphazard bun. "Sorry! Sorry. God, I hate the 2 sometimes. Especially today." She doesn't put her bag down so much as she bowls it into a corner, her phone and notebook already clutched together in one hand. "Hi. I'm Rachel." She smiles as she holds out her newly-freed hand, and Rhodey shakes it with gusto. 

"James," he says, as if she doesn't know. 

"Sam," you say as you shake her hand too, since stating the obvious seems to be the trend right now. 

Rachel pulls a water bottle out of a cooler at the end of the food table, and pulls another one out to offer it to you and Rhodey at the same time with questioning eyebrows. "Don't worry," she says, "we recycle." 

The three of you set up around a white circle of a coffee table, with Rachel in a modern-looking armchair that matches the couch you and Rhodey sit on. It's comfortable enough, but you wouldn't bring it home. 

"I'm gonna ask some questions that might hit a little close, just as a warning," Rachel says, re-materializing with a big mug of coffee. You hadn't even noticed she'd gotten up again. She takes a big pull from the mug, and arranges herself in a middle ground between comfort and professionalism in the chair. "The point of any interview is to ask the questions everyone wants asked, right?" 

"...Right," you say, trying to stay pleasant. Or neutral, whatever. You know a journalist like Rachel will pick up on every detail, write down absolutely anything, and then who knows what will make it into the article around the interview. 

"You guys good? Need any more food, maybe some coffee too?" 

"I'm good," Rhodey says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped between them. 

"Yeah, I'm ready," you say, and Rachel clears her throat. 

"Then let's get started," she says, and hits record on her phone. "So this is it, huh? You guys really made it to the top. The leader and, well, other leader of the Avengers." She gestures to Rhodey with her pen. "This is a different kind of promotion for you, though, isn't it?" 

"You really mean it when you say get started, huh?" Rhodey says with a laugh. "Yeah. Tony will always be Iron Man, no matter what. I stay War Machine, just with more executive power." 

"But you, Sam, you're being passed the shield. You're leaving the Falcon behind to become Captain America." Rachel's pen points at you now. 

"Uh, yeah." The wording _leaving the Falcon behind_ makes you itch. "It's an honor." 

"Of course it's an honor." Rachel withdraws her pen to tap its end against her lips. "It's just interesting that there absolutely needs to be a Captain America, but not an Iron Man; that Iron Man is just that, one man, but Captain America is a mantle to be passed." 

"Is it interesting? Or is it just factual? Captain is a military rank. Iron Man is Tony's invention." Rhodey smiles for his reply, but there's an edge to his words. Rachel wasn't kidding about hitting close, either, it seems. Tony is still in his chair in the corner, and if you didn't know him at all you'd think he's oblivious to the questions, but you can tell he's heard every word with rapt attention. Steve is in the bathroom. 

"Everything's interesting," Rachel says, and you suppose to an outsider like her, that's true. "Sorry, though, I didn't mean to dig that deep right away. Let's take a step back, huh?" 

"I wasn't bothered," you lie. Rhodey elbows you. 

Rachel does take a step back, though, as promised. For a while she just asks about your backgrounds, where you grew up, how you got into heroing—though that's a question more for you than Rhodey, because Rhodey's origins as War Machine are a matter of public record. She even asks what your mother thinks of your promotion, and that gets her a heartwarming story you just know will show up in the final edit. 

"Now, I want to be delicate about this, because I don't want to overstep," Rachel says, and already you're bracing yourself. This could be about anything. "What do you think it means for the world that the leaders of the Avengers are now Black?" 

Rhodey frowns, his eyes unfocused with thought. Rachel squirms, but when Rhodey speaks, it's not to chastise her. 

"In a perfect world, it wouldn't matter. But we don't live there. We live here. Here, where fascism and terrorism pretend to be two different sides of a fight, where fighting against racism has the potential to make the backlash—to make it uglier," he says, licking his lips when he pauses. "So to be the leader of the Avengers as a dark-skinned Black man who saw the American government drop bombs in my city, on my people? To be a force for justice, in that capacity? It means everything to me." 

Well, you're not going to be that poetic, you bet. Then again, Rhodey's got a solid ten years on you to learn how to choose his words. 

But both Rachel and Rhodey are looking at you, so you better start talking. 

"I don't have words like that," you say, trying and failing to keep the nerves out of your laughter. You unscrew the cap on your water bottle, take a sip that's longer than necessary. "I do know people don't like the idea of a Black Captain America, for a variety of reasons, most of them coming back to the simple fact they think the US is a white country." Another sip, and you put the bottle down. The cap doesn't screw on right. "So maybe that's why it's important." 

You catch Steve's eye across the room, but you can't read his face, for once. 

"And maybe," you go on, "it's important for kids like the kind of kid I was. Growing up in Harlem, losing my father to violence, living in a wildly different New York than it is today. As much as I've seen and heard threats to my life for daring to take on the shield, I've seen as many Black and brown kids so excited to see me, or even know I exist, who all think they can be just like me someday. Just like Rhodey said—a force for justice." 

"You've got words just like me," Rhodey says, laughing at you as he pushes at your shoulder. "Stop being bashful like that." 

"I wasn't nearly so concise as you, shut the fuck up," you retort, giving him a push back. "Shit, wait, can I curse? Is cursing allowed? I haven't cursed so far, right? Erase that part." 

"It's fine," Rachel says, giggling as she scribbles notes. "Captain America can curse in a recording on my work phone, I'm not transcribing verbatim for the article." 

"Ain't that a relief," you mutter, sitting back agains the couch with a big sigh. 

"Now, I have to circle back," Rachel says, and oh boy. Here it goes again. You manage not to sigh a second time. "There's more than one difference between your promotions. James, your predecessor is no longer physically fit to lead the Avengers, and as such has stepped down, although there's been a lot of speculation he'll still be giving input behind the scenes." Rhodey gives a noncommittal nod; Tony will give his input no matter what, because he's Tony. 

"But Sam, your predecessor is still in peak condition, and it's thought he always will be. I've seen more than one theory that the only reason you've been passed the torch is your relationship with Steve Rogers." 

"Now wait a minute—" Rhodey starts, putting his hand up, and in the corner of your eye you can see Steve unfolding his arms to clench his fists by his side. He wants so badly to interrupt, but he already knows what you'd tell him. 

"I got this one," you tell Rhodey, and Rhodey subsides, but just barely. "I've seen these theories too, although I don't know if the versions you saw were worded as rudely as the ones I witnessed," you say. "All I think of that is that it's another excuse to delegitimize me. Because I'm Black, because I love and live with a man—a man they purport to respect, but I know from experience how thin that ice is—they wanna tear me down. They want Steve back, or they want some fucking neo-nazi to take the shield from me by force, or anything in between, but either way they don't want me." 

"Which is fucked up," Rachel interjects, making sure you know where she stands on that. Which you needed a little bit, actually, considering she asked this question in the first place. 

"And to them, I say," you continue, "too bad. Too motherfucking bad. You're gonna have to snipe my ass out of the sky if you want me to drop this shield, and I move at speeds I guarantee none of these dummies will be able to hit. I'm Captain America, and Steve nominated me—nominated! It was a team decision!—because he knows I can do it and that I'm ready. It's not a popularity contest. It's a job offer, and if any of y'all out there are bitter I got it, that's a you problem, not a me problem. _I'm_ Captain America. Eat it!" 

You don't realize you're sitting on the edge of the couch until you're done talking, and you didn't notice how hard you're breathing, either. Rhodey tugs you back, and when you look at him he murmurs _Relax_ but he's smiling, pride in his eyes. 

"That'll probably get transcribed verbatim, actually," Rachel says, grinning hard enough to crinkle her eyes. "I guess our new Captain America _does_ swear, huh?" 

"Oh, Steve swears, y'all just don't hear it because he's always tried to be kid-friendly. It's not that many kids that read GQ far as I know, so I'm—I'm alright with it." You chuckle, finally sliding back into your seat properly. 

"I do," Steve says from his spot standing near Tony, waving at Rachel when she looks at him. "F-word and everything." 

"Yeah, right," she snorts, turning back to face you and writing some more notes. 

Rachel doesn't bring the same accusation to Rhodey, as much as it might apply given Tony and Rhodey's relationship, and maybe it's that Rhodey's proven himself worthy, even better than Tony as a leader over and over again. But you'd like to think it's that your answer was so phenomenal she couldn't think of bringing it up again. 

Instead she asks Rhodey about his plans for the future of the team and its ever-evolving roster; she even asks if he's considering inviting Luke Cage, which Rhodey won't answer one way or another, except to say Luke Cage already has a team. She asks you about the international alliance you're forming with the Black Panther in Wakanda, without whom you wouldn't have the iconic shield. Tony feigns sleep during that one. Whatever, he can be bitter about that all he wants, and if he says anything you'll mention that his father made the shield with stolen materials. 

Well, no, you know he's not _bitter_ , per se, Rhodey's explained as much to you. But Tony doesn't know how to move on from anything completely, the past always tangled around his ankles. 

The interview ends on a light note as Rachel asks how you felt about the photoshoot yesterday, and you let her know just how weird it felt to be dressed by another person, which gets laughs from the whole room. She asks what you intend to do after the interview, and after a glance at the clock and Steve, you say _Lunch, obviously_. Rhodey shrugs and says _Lunch, probably_ while looking sidelong at Tony, who looks a little green in the gills holding his empty plate. Figures Tony would be bad at being a sick person. 

You shake hands with Rachel again after she turns her phone off, and make your way over to Steve, who's eating more cheese even though lunch is next. That damn super metabolism. "Did I spot you talking to Tony during my interview?" you ask as Steve slips his arm around your waist. 

"Maybe a little bit." Steve is putting cheese cubes in a napkin, and you wonder where he learned that, because it definitely wasn't from you. "I think we understand each other a little bit more now. Or he understands me, anyway, about why I'm stepping down." 

"That's good, if it's true." You point at the cheese. "Steve, really?" 

"I like it. I want it at home." 

"Steve, you have more money than God. You could just ask what kind of cheese it is and buy yourself a wheel. You could buy _better_ cheese." 

"You make it sound like I have as much money as Tony or T'Challa," he says, while putting the cheese napkin in his pocket. That is officially only _his_ cheese. 

"You know what? Whatever. Where do you wanna go eat lunch? You wanna take Tony and Rhodey with us?" If Tony's up for it, anyway. 

"I just don't know," Steve says, giving you a warm smile. "Why don't you pick, Cap? Make a leader's decision." 

"Corny. You're corny," you say, kissing his cheek. You open up Yelp on your phone and direct Steve to go ask the other two if they want to come along. 

"Come on, Captain America," Rhodey calls out, making you look up from your phone. "Get your coat on, we're going to Applebee's!"

**Author's Note:**

> anyway! i exist on tumblr as softsams and the artist as silentwalrus1, so come visit us if you're so inclined. once the masterpost is up i'll be editing it into the end notes haha


End file.
